No More Mr Nice Guy
by livengoo
Summary: The Crossroads Demon has taken his brother. How far will Sam Winchester go to get him back?
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: No More Mr. Nice Guy 1 of 7  
**Perpetrated by:**

**Rating:** PG-13 for language.  
**Fandom(s):** Supernatural  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Bobby, Crossroads Demon, ODC  
**Pairing: **none  
**Spoilers:** for _AHBL 2_  
**Genre: **uhhh, wellll . . . comedy. Trust me, really it is.  
**Word Count:** 13,500 more or less  
**Disclaimer:** They're mine! Mine! Until after I take my medication at least . . .  
**Summary:** The Crossroads Demon has taken his brother. How far will Sam Winchester go to get him back?

* * *

Sam Winchester was avoiding people. All people, especially the ones who knew him well. Maybe most of the world wouldn't see the scars - the Impala's paint was as shiny and perfect as daily wash and wax could make it after all. And Sam's skin bore only the old, pale lines he'd had when Dean was still there. After a month, nothing showed of the clawed wreckage left by hell hounds except in his eyes. In his eyes, there was no perfect paint, and flesh couldn't survive the bloody destruction there.

She'd come on the dot, midnight, the last day. And now Dean was gone, and Sam was waiting for the dark of the moon.

Two weeks had never seen so long. The drive hadn't been long enough to distract him. Especially not when he was alone in the Impala, and the only passenger was his grief. Music - even what passed for Dean's taste in music - couldn't rattle the cold ache in his gut. Sam had honored tradition, though, and come back to the same crossroads.

He'd seen dead cats on the roadside, but they'd been tabbies, calicos . . . useless. He hadn't felt a twinge, though, when he'd trapped the stray and snapped its neck. Couldn't feel anything but that crushing grief and, yeah, rage. Rage at the Crossroads demon, rage at his dead father, at the world . .. rage at Dean. Who'd left him alone.

The dirt was drought dry as he scrabbled in it with his hands, digging. The rules hadn't banned a shovel but if felt wrong, somehow. This was work he would do with his own two hands, feeling the dusty, packed dirt crumble under his nails, mix with the blood of torn nails, scraped knuckles. He glanced at the trowel he'd brought but somehow that felt wrong. An act of sacrifice should take blood, should be the act of his own hands.

It didn't need to be deep, just deep enough. He knelt there staring at the shallow hole he'd made. It didn't look like much, not even shadowed on a night of the new moon, with nothing but the gloom of a misty night. Sam reached down, grazed fingers along the depression he'd dug. Shut his eyes and swallowed hard, feeling the sting beneath his lids. Then he opened them and picked up the box beside him. Flipped its lid back to run his scraped fingers over the contents, making sure of what he knew by heart. Black cat bone and scratchy dry herbs. All the rest. He set it down and pulled out his wallet, flipped it over and found what he wanted. A few gentle tugs freed the stiff piece of paper from the plastic sleeve. Sam couldn't see it in the gloom, but he didn't need to. He knew this by heart too, the way the camera flash had caught Dean by surprise, in the middle of a laugh. Even in the moonless night he could faintly see the gleam of Dean's teeth. Sam smiled humorlessly and put the picture in the box.

It didn't take long to bury it in the hole. He pushed the very last of the dirt back onto the small mound and patted it down oh so softly. And then took a deep breath and looked around the crossroads, where no one else stood. A breeze stirred the weeds at the border of the road, yellow yarrow growing thick at the boundaries of the thing spot in the normal, sane world.

Sam didn't know what to do with himself. How long he'd have to wait. He paced the crossroads, circling the square. Walking widdershins all the way.

This third circle was all it took. A woman's mocking laughter rang behind him, unmuffled by the mist. Sam shivered then turned slowly, knowing what he'd see already. She was beautiful to look at, of course. For a moment he wondered what face she'd steal if a woman dug the hole. Bobby might know. "I wondered if you'd come."

Her smile was wide and cruel. "For a Winchester? Of course."

She didn't so much walk as slink, coming within reach. Her hand touched his face, smooth, perfectly kept nails and soft skin should have felt good on his skin but her warm touch left a shivering sense of disease behind, like as if she'd left slime on his skin. Sam took a breath that tasted of perfume and rot and did not step away. "You took his soul."

"You had any doubt? I can let you see him, Sam. Would you like that?" She battered her lashes coquettishly and leaned close to breathe in his ear. "I can let you hear his screams."

He couldn't stop himself from pushing her away, snarling "You bitch."

"Thank you, Sam!" She started to circle him, drawing him into a counter-clockwise spiral. "What kind of deal did you call me for, sweetheart?"

"What makes you think I'd ever deal with you?"

She pouted. "No one ever calls me for anything else, honey. I put out, give you whatever you want, and do you write, do you call?"

"I don't want to play games with you," he growled, stopping and turning to face her.

"Poor little Sammy." She reached out, ran her fingers over his collar, down his chest. "No games tonight? Not going to try to lure me into a circle or force me into a deal?"

"Would you let me?" His words were bitter and he delivered them with a smile to match.

"You wouldn't ask if you didn't already know the answer." She shimmied her hips, drew a high-heeled foot up his calf. "I could offer you ten years, Sammy. Like I did with Evan."

He shuddered at her touch but held still. "But you wouldn't. You only offered Dean one."

Her laughter pealed, her throat long and fine as she threw back her head. "Would you take the year? I could come for you together then."

Sam reached up and wove his fingers through the hair at her nape. "Dean made his deal. And kept it."

She grinned gleefully. "Yes. He did. And oh, how he fought when I took him, Sam. He struggled. It made me hot. I wish you could have seen it."

"He didn't want me there." Sam spoke the truth in a quiet, sad voice.

It made her lick her lips and moan. "You and your brother. Your pain is so delicious. I can't wait to tell him about it."

Sam tightened his grip more, pulling back her head. "I'll tell him myself."

She twisted her head, miming sexual play in his hands. "Sammy, Sammy . . . much as I'd love to take you, I'm not going to give you a deal."

He bent over her, holding her up now. "My soul not good enough for you?"

She ran the pointed tip of her tongue over her bottom lip and slid her fingers along the waist of his jeans. "Something like that."

"Don't like the demon taint in my blood?"

Her eyes narrowed, her playfulness fading a bit. "Let go of me."

He felt the strength she started to bring to bear. It was . . . other than human. But he could respond in kind. "In law, there's the concept of a gift, bitch. A gift isn't a loan and it's not a trade. It's something you give freely. And the recipient doesn't need to know or care about it's value, you know."

"Let GO of me!" Her voice had gone shrill.

He tightened his grip instead. "I was given a gift. A couple of them, actually, if you consider knowledge a gift."

"I'll burn your bones in the pits!" She clawed at him. One of her nails dragged a vicious scratch down his neck. Sam pulled her in tight and wrapped his arms around, whispering in her ear. "I bet you'll have to stand in line, bitch. Take a number."

Something more than muscle fought him now. The air was sharp with the tang of ozone and her eyes glowed a lurid red. There was a high, horribly human screaming sound in Sam's ears, and then he . . . REACHED in and found what felt like the smoke of burning corpses inside her and twisted and she howled, long and loud. Her screams sounded nothing like the sickening whimpers he heard from all around, but unlike those agonized sounds, hers cut off when he wrapped his big hand around the pale throat and felt for the darkness within. He squeezed, just a little, then relaxed his hand and she drew in a gasp. Sam leaned close and whispered in her ear, "You're going to do something for me."

"I told you," she hissed. "No deals."

Sam smiled sweetly into her face. "I'm not asking for a deal. Dean made his deal. And he kept it. You took him. And now I want you to give him back."

Her lipsticked lips thinned. "It doesn't work that way."

He stroked her throat and shredded a bit of the darkness and she writhed and groaned, long and loud. When he stopped she nodded, tears of blood staining her host's pale cheeks. "What do you want?"

"I want my brother back. I want Dean Winchester, body and soul, resurrected on the face of the earth whole and free of you. He made his deal. He's not breaking it. You're choosing to give him back."

She bared her teeth, then hesitated, eyes narrowing. The faint screams were making Sam's skin crawl, and the look in her red eyes made him reach into her again, but she shook her head. "Wait! Wait. You want him back. Body whole, soul installed, 28 and free of . . . encumbrances." She hissed the legal term.

Sam watched her, trying to find the trap his instincts told him lay within her words. The screams had died away as if she'd given up on pressuring him with the sound and all the pain it held. He still felt them, in remembered empathy, and the thougt made his stomach ball up tight. Made him add, "and I want him free of hell's touch, you bitch."

She nodded fast, face ugly with fear. "Whole, soul in body, same age and . . ." There was the tiniest pause as her pink tongue flicked at the white teeth. "Free of hell's touch. Done!"

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

No More Mr. Nice Guy 2 of 7

See part 1 for warnings, overall summary, all that good stuff . . .

Where'd I leave ya? Ohhh yeah. The Crossroads Demon had really truly taken Dean, and Sam had a few lovely parting gifts left over from Azazel's (AKA YED) version of Survivor. What happens when you get what you ask for?

* * *

Sam yelped as a flash of intolerable heat and unbearable cold swirled the air of the crossroads. Somewhere a dog howled, then Sam's ears popped and he looked up to see a form lying limp at the center,sprawled. He held the demon another moment until he saw the chest move, then let her go. If she'd kept her word this far she'd keep it entire, and there was no doubt that he was looking at Dean lying there in the dust, over the spot where Sam had buried his summoning box. Dean, unconscious, reborn naked into his world and alive, oh thank God alive. 

The demon vanished unnoticed somewhere, he didn't care. He'd thrown himself to his knees beside his brother and gathered him up in his arm. Dean's skin was clammy and chill despite the warm, southern night, his skin rough with goose flesh. Sam ran his hands over Dean, unable to believe he was real, breathing, alive and there. He swallowed hard, tasting acid at the back of his throat, a prickle at the back of his eyes as he grabbed Dean's face between his hands and tried to see something in the unconscious features. He didn't know what he was looking for, anguish or peace, pain or ease. Whatever he was looking for, Dean's still features gave nothing. Sam shook him, hesitated and slapped him lightly,then ran his fingers soothingly over the cheek he'd struck. There was a choked sound and it took a moment for him to realize he'd made it himself.

Dean just lay there, still and slack and giving nothing back. Sam stopped trying to wake him and simply pulled him up into a fireman's carry over his shoulders. He tried not to think of the last time he'd touched Dean, or of Dean doing this for him a year and a month ago. Instead, he concentrated on the way it felt every time Dean drew a breath, the shift and pressure of his chest expanding, then breathing out. Each time Dean breathed out Sam felt a twitch in his belly until the next breath was drawn in. As he staggered down the road to the car, he wondered how long that fear would last.

The Impala's door opened easily and for once almost soundlessly. He bent to lower Dean to the back seat, raced around to the other side to pull him in more comfortably. He hadn't know what he would get and hadn't really thought beyond what it would take to coerce the demon bitch. Hadn't dared to hope. Now he yanked a blanket out of the trunk, almost fumbling in haste to move back to where he could see Dean, wrapping it around him and letting his fingers linger over the unbelievable pulse again.

It was so hard to drive the speed limit but he forced himself. The idea of being pulled over by the cops, with the naked, unconscious body of a man who was supposed to be dead in the back of his car . . .well. It was good incentive and Sam managed to keep to just a mile or two over the speed limit.

It was a Thursday night, busy bar night and he had to sit in the car for twenty minutes before the parking lot was empty. He kept turning, peering into the back seat, trying to hear any tiny variance in how Dean was breathing, hoping for a sound, a sign. Dean had always been a frustrating, obstinate bastard, all his life. And after his death and, Sam supposed, his rebirth . . . well. Maybe it was a sign, because he was still frustrating Sam.

When a quiet time finally came, he wasted no time getting Dean slung over his shoulders again, and into the motel room he'd rented. The mattress springs squeaked when he lowered Dean onto it. It was such a familiar sound..This room was familiar, in all its ordinary, tacky crassness. Dean looked at home here. Sam hadn't really thought about it, had just kept on in the same habits of a lifetime. Where he stayed wasn't important, after all. Only who was there with him, or not.

The night was long, and terribly quiet. He spent it sitting next to his brother, trying to find some way to help a hurt he didn't even know existed. Dean's skin had no new scars that Sam could find. Once he was tucked into a cozy bed, he'd gradually warmed until he no longer felt clammy, and never did grew too warm. His hair was still short, soft as Sam combed his fingers through it. His lashes were dark against cheeks that were neither too flushed nor too pale. After a few hours his eyes moved beneath his lids, twitching with dreams, but there was no sign of distress. No sign of nightmares. Just dreams.

Morning sunlight spilled over and the sill of the window, and Dean finally stirred and breathed faster. Sam paused, hand on his brow. "Dean?"

Dean twitched, made a small smacking noise with his lips and opened his eyes. "Samm- Sam?"

"Oh thank God." Sam lunged and wrapped his arms around him, not thinking, not knowning anything but the fact that his brother was alive, aware, and knew him. "Dean, Dean, man, I can't believe it but . . ."

"Sam?" Dean sounded baffled. His hand patted at Sam's shoulder in hesitant reassurance. "Hey, hey, it's okay. What's wrong Sam?"

"Wrong?" Sam felt his eyes prickle again and choked on a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Finally made himself pull back, wiping as his eyes as he sniffed. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

Dean was blinking at him a little dazedly. And finally looked down at himself, then up, then tugged the cover up to his chin and smiled a little crookedly. "Uh, good. Cause, dude, where are my pajamas?"

Half an hour later Sam sat on his bed and tried to remember if he'd been drinking. Or doing drugs. Or even, maybe, just food poisoning. Anything that might cause hallucinations. Because even in a life of demons and ghosts and brothers back from the dead there, y'know, limits to how weird shit could get.

"Sam?" The voice came from the bathroom. "Where's my toothbrush?"

"Uh . . ." Sam fought to remember what had happened to Dean's toothbrush the morning after the hell hound had taken his soul. "I think it's in your bag?"

There was a long pause, then, "No, there's just this nasty one I can't use. It looks like it was use for cleaning grout."

"Grout?" Grout? Did Dean even know what grout was? "Do you even know what grout IS?"

"Dude." Dean had tugged open the door and was peeking modestly around it. He a look wore of a mildly offended disbelief. "Of course. Grout is the final sealing caulk between tiles. It's essential for the integrity of bathroom fixtures where water can cause deterioration."

Sam blinked. "It is?"

"Yeah. Don't you ever watch infomercials?"

Sam blinked again. And again. "Uhhh . . . I'll be back in five minutes with a new toothbrush. Okay?"

Dean smiled brightly. "That's be really great. Thanks."

Somehow, Sam would have felt better if there'd been a tang of sarcasm to his words.

But . . . even so. It was Dean. When he heard Def Leppard belted out in the shower a warm feeling grew in his belly and the smile on his face ached it was so wide. Dean strutted out squeaky clean, smelling of soap and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. "I'm starving. Get your fanny in gear."

Sam hesitated, smile slipping a fraction until hazel-green eyes pinned him. "Where. Is. My. Jacket?"

"Uh . . ." He scrambled, pulling it from under his pillow. Dean looked puzzle. "Dude, why are you sleeping with my jacket?"

Blink. He wasn't about to admit he'd been cuddling that jacket and taking comfort in the scent of gunpowder, leather and Dean. "I was keeping it warm."

Dean stared at him blankly, then gave a whole-body shudder and shook like a dog shaking off water. "Right. It's not that cold out. Uh . . . you haven't been snuggling with the car keys have you?"

Sam fished the keys out of his pocket. "Here, jerk."

"Thanks!" Dean paused, lips parted as if he was about to go on, then smiled brightly, leaned over and snatched up the keys. "Diner. Where?"

"Three miles east," Sam told his back. A brief wave answered, thehen, as Sam unconsciously also headed to the driver's side, the wave turned into a point directing him towards the passenger side. After weeks in the driver's seat it felt wrong and right all at once to be riding shotgun. Sam settled back, squirmed to try to find the divot his butt had worn in the seat over the last two years and slid a little glance towards Dean. "Uh, what . . . I mean." Dean was sitting at the exit to the road, studying the oncoming traffic and ignoring him. Sam blurted it out. "What do you remember?"

"I remember you said the diner is east. The sun's that way -" He pointed. "And I remember I'm hungry so if you want to know something, spit it out."

Sam shook his head, grinning. "I love you."

Dean shot him a look. "Aw. That's so sweet."

Sam would have felt better if he'd been able to hear a hint of sarcasm in that. But it WAS Dean. He took a deep breath and tried again. "What's the last thing you remember before today?"

Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, and pulled carefully into traffic. "I remember . . ." He trailed off. Sam swallowed hard. His palms hurt from where he was digging his nails in them. Dean tilted his head as he pulled to a halt at a railroad track, looked both ways to make sure that a train hadn't snuck up to the tracks and then pulled across. "I remember that I was going to hell, Sam. But then it gets kind of weird." He frowned. "I mean, unless Hell's like the kid's room at McDonald's at least."

"Shit." Ssam sagged back, limp with relief and started to laugh.

"Language," said Dean, and that only made Sam laugh harder. He was still chuckling as Dean pulled into the parking lot of the Eat Heavy Diner and found a perfect spot, parking precisely between the lines with the kind of precision he'd apply to target practice.

"What, you're not gonna take up two spots?"

Dean shook his head. Quirked a small grin. "That would be bad. That would be wrong."

Sam couldn't quite bring himself to say what he wanted to say. It was too raw and precious to see Dean there, smiling, to ask who he was and he already knew what had been done to his brother. He settled for rolling his eyes in classic little brother style. Dean smirked then led him into the diner.

It was so familiar, and Sam hadn't really dared to hope that he'd be sitting in a diner again, on cheap vinyl seats in a booth across from his brother, scanning grease-tacky menus for what they'd eat. He kept peeking over the top of the folder for the sheer pleasure of seeing Dean sitting there, with the sunlight limning his cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jawline. When the perky young woman in the pink uniform and the note pad walked up, he gave her a smile that Sam had known for years. And then ordered a fruit platter and cottage cheese. Sam twitched and waited for the laugh and the "just foolin'!" but then she was looking at him and he stammered out an order for waffles and sausage as he stared at his brother. Who was giving him a gently disapproving look. As the girl sashayed off (glancing over her perky shoulder to give them a shy smile), Dean made a tsking noise. "That's all carbs, dude."

"Dean?"

"Do you have any idea what that'll do to your blood sugars?"

Sam leaned over and put the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Dude!" His hand was knocked away. "You know how I feel about PDA!"

"Dean . . ."

"I"m fine. I'M not the guy about to eat a sugar bomb!"

"Dean!" Sam held up his hand in the universal "STOP!" signal. "Man, what is going ON with you?"

His brother at back and eyed him. "Nothing."

"But . . ."

"Sam." Dean cut him off. "Look. I . . . I know you've been through something pretty bad."

"Me!"

"Hey, all I remember is a noisy, bright, annoying place. And not even all that clearly. But I . . . I know how it feels to be left behind." He visibly swallowed. "Yeah. You have been through something pretty bad."

Sam blinked hard against the sting in his eyes. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. "It was . . . pretty bad. But I kept busy. I had a lot of things to get ready."

"Must have done one darn fine job of it too, judging from the results!" Dean's lightning bright grin shone.

And Sam twitched. Hard. Narrowed his eyes. And leaned forward. "Say it."

"Say what?" The grin faded to puzzlement.

"Damn. Shit. Fuck. Hell. God. Jesus Christ on a skateboard. Son of a bitch. Take your pick, Dean but say it!"

"Why?"

"Just . . . come on, jerk. Say it!"

Dean frowned. Opened his mouth. And said, "Hey look! Breakfast's here."

"Sure is," bubbled the blonde in pink. "Just right for a pair of big . . ." She put Sam's plate of waffles down, then turned to Dean, faltered then smiled more brightly as she put down the fruit and cottage cheese. "Strong men"

"Thank you very much," returned Dean, with no hint of smarm, and only a bit of charm, and not a single solitary ounce of flirt at all. Sam's skin crawled as the waitress paused, waiting, then finally was called away and his brother dug merrily into canned grapefruit slices, cantaloupe, and curds.

The waffles might have been fantastic but Sam could barely taste them, all his attention on Dean. Who opened his mouth to show off half-chewed fruit and waggled his eyebrows. It was almost reassuring except Sam was pretty sure that four year old behavior didn't count as a sin. He gulped coffee and hesitated, staring at Dean's cup. "Oh my God. You ordered decaf."

"Not supposed to take the Lord's name in vain."

"Since when do you believe in God?"

Dean looked up, a forkful of cottage cheese poised and it was suddenly, horribly wrong. Sam leaned forward and hissed, "Christo!"

And got a smirk for his trouble. "Just because I don't adhere to mainline religions doesn't make me evil, Sam, but you should respect beliefs. I wouldn't desecrate a Torah or a Koran either."

"Since WHEN?"

"Dude. Bad manners. And keep it down!"

Sam looked around, noted a few people staring, then looked down to his waffles and wracked his brain. Finally tugged the handy sqeeze bottle of holy water that was an accessory as essential as his wallet and phone and tipped a bit into Dean's coffee, getting an annoyed look for his troubles. "Do you mind? I kind of like it strong."

"Drink it."

"Why?"

"Just do."

Dean heaved a noisy sigh then shotgunned his cup, draining it. And waved it at the waitress as Sam stared. "Thanks a lot. I'm gonna have to stop to pee in an hour, twerp."

"What did you call me?

"A twerp, Sam. What do you think? Or a nerd or a geek, all of which you are. And a pest right now too!"

"But . . ."

"Thanks, sweetheart. Another decaf?" The waitress had happily planted herself beside them and was carefully displaying her assets as she poured Dean his cup. All of which he carefully avoided noticing, keeping his eyes well away from nipples and cleavage until she straightened back up, gave them both a suspicious look, and huffed off.

"And what's with that?" Sam gestured towards her back.

"What do you mean?" Dean was blowing in the surface of his drink to cool it. "If you're gonna spike my coffee again, do it now when it'll cool it down."

"I . . .you . . ." Sam floundered then shook it off. "I have NEVER seen you blow off a pretty girl like that. You've been giving them the eye since you were twelve!"

"I know." Dean wore a contrite look. "I've got a lot of sexist years to make up for. But today's the first day of the rest of my life."

Sam knew his mouth was open but he just couldn't help it. He knew he was staring but he couldn't help that either. He finally snapped his jaw shut, shoved himself up from the table, stalked away and remembered back-from-hell-Dean didn't have any money. Stalked back and threw a twenty on the table and stalked out to slouch against the Impala and pulled out his phone. Speed dial went through fast. "Bobby?"

"Sam?" Their old friend's voice sounded wary, nervous, warm. Sam swallowed and clung to the familiar voice.

"Bobby, I need your help. I need to know . . .Is there a curse like . . . I dunno . . .personality inversion? Asshole inversion?"

" . . . Dean's everted his gut?"

"No, no, it's just . . .is there something like a decency hex that can make you stop blurting obscenities and half-assed comments and suddenly act . . nice. Is there a spell? Or, y'know, maybe a brain tumor or something?"

There was a long silence. Then, "Samuel Winchester. What the FUCK are you talking about?"

It was so good to hear the vulgar word that Sam nearly sobbed. "I really need to know."

"Why?"

"Well. I brought back Dean."

"WHHHHAAAT?!!!"

"Yeah. I, uh, got him back." This time it wasn't a silence. It was panting, wheezing sound sort of like he thought apoplexy might be like. "Bobby? You okay?"

"Did you act like a FUCK UP and do it too? Tell me you didn't do it too, Sam!"

"Do wh . . .oh. OH! No, I didn't sell my soul. Didn't need to."

"Then how?" The question was voiced in a deadly, quiet tone.

"Nothing bad," Sam found himself defending. He looked up at the diner window to see Dean watching him, puzzled, with a forkful of melon in the air. He waved a reassuring little wave. "Just . . .y'know. I figured after all the demon put me through there had to be a dividend."

"A dividend." Bobby was starting to sound dazed.

"Well, yeah. Look, can we go into this later?"

"But you got Dean back?"

"Yep. I told her to bring him back, whole and sane and safe and free of . . ." He hesitated. Trailed off.

"Sam?"

"Oh crap."

"SAM?"

"Look. We'll be there in two days."

Bobby sighed. "Is that as bad as it sounds?"

"I . . . you'll see."

"Oh. Crap."

* * *

TBC 


	3. Chapter 3

No More Mr. Nice Guy 3 of 6

All the warnings and stuff in part 1. Continue at your peril!

And back at the ranch . . .Sam's learning the truth of the old saying to be careful you ask for – you might get it. So what do you do when you can't stand where you are? ROAD TRIP!

* * *

The threat of bloodshed was comfortingly familiar for any Winchester. Including the threat of Winchester blood shed by Winchester fists. Sam basked in that familiarity as he loomed over Dean and growled, "Give me the keys."

Who curled a lip. "In your dreams, little brother."

Sam shifted his weight and moved towards his hideously sinless brother. "We've got a long way to go and there is no way in hell I'm letting you drive it."

Dean smirked. "Well. Good thing we won't be in hell then. Though I'll spot you a few points for Idaho."

"Keys. Now." Sam held his palm out.

Dean sidled along the Impala's flank. "No. You speed."

Sam gritted his teeth. "You were driving the speed limit. No, no, you were driving three miles UNDER the speed limit!"

"Which is legally recommended," whined Dean. "You can't be too careful."

"You nearly got us KILLED! At least two semis tried to nudge you up to a reasonable speed. That was just terrifying but then that Mini-Cooper?"

"He was rude."

"He was humiliating! Since when do you let a Mini-Cooper try to honk you faster?"

"It's not my fault they were breaking the law!"

"Dean." Sam finally cornered him against the rear fender and acquired the keys by brute force. "I'm driving."

The pout that answered was impressive. "I hate riding shotgun. Your butt divot doesn't fit. And besides, it's my car."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You died. You left it to me. It's mine."

"I'm alive now!" came the indignant reply.

"Not legally," delivered with a sharkish grin.

"Lawyer."

It wasn't quite fair, of course. Dean was handicapped, what with no profanity and refraining from hitting below the belt. But it was fun. Sam grinned broadly and slung his tall body into the driver's seat, shoving it back to give his legs room. Dean settled into the passenger seat with the look of distaste he wore any time he had to ride shotgun and without a hangover. Not that he'd had any alcohol since he'd returned. Sam sighed. If he was ever forced to admit the things he'd missed Dean would never let him forget it. Assuming Dean got back to being DEAN instead of . . . CleanDean. He glanced at his brother and found a look of distaste that matched his own. "Yeah. I know how you feel."

Dean heaved a noisy sigh. "I doubt it."

Thank God.

* * *

Riding with Dean was proving surprisingly educational. If asked, Sam would have bet hard money that sulking was hellish behavior but he'd have lost that bet. Dean sulked for at least a hundred miles. Apparently backseat driving was also not the product of Hell's touch because in between sulking, he was firmly admonished to drive the speed limit, use his turn signals, pass only on broken yellows and pull over for faster vehicles. It gave a really deep insight into Cain's motivations, that was for sure.

"You need to pull over."

Sam shut his eyes for a moment, and rubbed at the vein he knew had to be throbbing in his forehead. "I didn't know that hell was responsible for bladder capacity, Dean."

The noisy sigh was apparently not hellish either. Who knew? "You're down to a quarter tank. If you're going to insist on driving, then take care of her at least." One hand smoothed along the dashboard in a caress. Apparently unnatural attachments to cars weren't hellish either, though Sam did wonder if the Divine would have frowned on the teenage Dean's collection of pin-ups of classic cars. Or perhaps it was just the use to which he'd put them. A disgusting throat clearing noise demanded his attention. "Quarter tank, Sam. Or do you want to push the Impala a couples? Or maybe get her towed. We'd have to find one of those garages that has the trailer cause no way are you hooking my baby up on a chain."

"I'm pulling in. I'm pulling in."

And really, it was a relief. Oh, being able to stretch his legs was good for sure, but being able to get out and not hear, or sense, or see his brother from the corner of his eye? Priceless! Dean sauntered into the mini-mart and Sam leaned against the car and muttered, "shit, crap, hell, fuck, cocksucking son of a bitch hell WHORE!" He paused, instinctively waiting for the disapproving look and the gentle admonishment that he'd been putting up with all day. And smiled at the silence. "Jesus Christ on a surfboard?" Nothing. "Shit!" Only the rustle of a low wind through the fields. Sam happily finished pumping and sauntered off to the men's room. He almost jerked off just for the excellent feeling of being naughty and NOT being tsk'd for it, but that was just petty. Not to mention the atmosphere just didn't put him in the mood.

When he got back, Dean was in the driver's seat. Sam leaned down and eyed him. Dean rolled his eyes and slid over to the passenger seat again. "All right. I suppose it's only fair to let you drive."

"Thank you." Sam slid behind the wheel. Turned the engine and Dean offered him a hot cup that was comfortably nestled into a cardboard sleeve. "Got you coffee."

"Thank you!" Sam repeated, this time with genuine gratitude. Until he took a sip. It had a faint, oily, acrid taste taste that was wrong, wrong, wrong. Sam wrinkled his nose and pulled back to stare at the cup, appalled. "What is this?"

"Coffee." Dean sipped cheerfully at his own cup.

"What's wronnng with it?" Sam drew out the word.

"Nothing." There was a smug look on his face. That look Sam was starting to recognize as the one that meant he thought he'd gotten away with a good deed.

"Dean." Sam paused, considering how to phrase it, then nodded. He knew Dean wouldn't lie, at least. "Dean, is this a regular coffee, with four sugars and three creams?"

"Well . . . I put in three creams."

"Dean?" He rasped.

"You're not supposed to be able to taste the difference!"

Sam narrowed his eyes. Held out the cup with a look of disgust. "What. Is. This. Stuff."

There was that noisy sigh again. "Splenda."

"Splenda. And?"

"Uh . . ."

"Cough it up, big brother."

"Come on. Decaf won't kill you! It's GOOD for you!"

Sam unrolled the window and reached out, pouring his drink out into the wind - the ten-miles-over-the-speed-limit-wind - of their transit. Then made himself toss away the cup."

"That's LITTERING!"

"Yes. It is."

Dean slammed himself back into the seat and crossed his arms. It was a move that Sam had perfected at age six and he felt fully qualified to judge Dean on style, form, and inclusion of the traditional motifs of full-bore sulking. This was a solid 7 out of 10 effort and Sam had to give him credit for mastering the maneuver with minimal practice. Of course, it was a hideously annoying maneuver, but it was meant to be. Sam leaned over, picked up an empty burger wrapper and flipped it out the window too, just to make the effort worthwhile.

"That is completely juvenile."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "So is sulking."

Dean shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath, then nodded. "Fair enough. If I don't sulk, will you properly dispose of trash?"

"Deal."

Dean broke into a wide, happy smile. "Then check this out, little brother, I found this sweet tape back there!"

"Uhh . . ."

"You are gonna love this." He was tearing the plastic wrap off a cassette case and gleefully pulling out the tape. Sam didn't have the heart to tell him not to. Either that or maybe he was just the tiniest bit curious what was about to happen. Maybe gospel? Aretha Franklin? Maybe even Deliverance if he was going for godly metal. Dean slotted in a tape and sound blasted out of the speakers. And Sam flinched. Then cringed. Then coughed to keep from gagging as someone . . . .God help him . . .crooned the opening notes of "Its a Long Way to the Top."

Sam blinked hard as if trying to clear his eyes would make his ears hear something different. . "Dean. What. Is. That."

"Pat Boone!" Dean was almost bouncing in his seat. "It's great, isn't it? Good, wholesome entertainment."

Sam ground the heel of his hand into his right eye, then his left. "I have never heard anything like it, Dean. Honest to God."

"Yeah." Dean sat happily back, drumming to the nasty, elevator-music slick version of "Smoke on the Water."

Yes. This was really educational. Sam now knew exactly what they played on the stereo in the tenth circle of hell.

Some memories were too painful to hold onto in all their technicolor horror. Sam knew it. He'd lived it. He'd heard women talk about forgetting the rigors of childbirth. Remembered how his father had sobbed as his memories of Mary Winchester faded, even as the dimming of her details dulled the pain of her loss. And Sam Winchester knew that he'd only remember the drive to North Dakota in snapshots of ghastliness. And for that he was thankful.

Mississippi to North Dakota was not a one day drive. Sam didn't bother to try to drive into the middle of the night. More like the middle of the afternoon really. It was that or put a bullet in the Impala's tape deck. Or into Dean. Because Dean played that tape over and over. And he sang along. With Pat.

Mound Bayou would always be holy ground in his opinion because when they pulled in, Dean ejected the tape. Sam reached and accidentally fumbled it so badly it went flying out the window. Dean spun, "Oh RATS! Pull over."

"Rats?" It almost threw him enough to do it. Then Sam came to his senses and shook his head. "Sorry man. Can't interfere with flow of traffic."

Dean mournfully turned in his seat, wincing. Sam assumed the tape had been run over. He briefly said a prayer of thanks under his breath.

The motel was easy to choose. With so much disrupted in his world, Sam went with tried and true. He passed up the Executive Inn, the Best Western, the Holiday Inn, bypassed everything where their car - and probably their credit cards - would stand out and went for the most cringe-inducing motel he could find. It was easy. Just look for the one that made Dean sit up straight. Which ruled out that Dean's taste in motels had been the product of a curse laid by his evil step-mother but some dreams just couldn't last. Which was how they wound up pulling past the giant, glittery, pumpkin-shaped front-office pulled by enormous mice, to check in at the Cinderella Motor Court and Vacation Cabins. Dean peered down the drive towards the giant gourd of an office, turned back to Sam with a brow raised and grunted, "huh."

It was good enough.

In fact, the Cinderella Motor Court was in the running with Dean's best. The gigantic plaster rodents in livery that held up the front counter were a dead giveaway. As if he needed one. A bored, tired looking woman in an tattered old princess costume eyed him as he walked in. "Yeah?"

"Uh, room?"

She looked at him. Looked at Dean. Said "Got a cabin. Two queens. Take it or leave it."

He looked at his brother who looked back, and they both turned. "Take it."

She nodded, a brief, knowing smile gracing her lips. "Yeah. Thought you'd say that."

The gig was almost over in the next instant, of course, as Sam pulled out a credit card and from the corner of his eye, caught the look on Dean's face. He'd gotten so used to the fraud in the last two years that it seldom bothered him anymore, but suddenly he saw Dean's brow furrow, his lips part, and he spun on his heel and blurted, "Uh, do you take cash?"

She blinked like he'd asked her if the glass slipper ornament on the counter fit her foot. "Hunnerd-fifty up front for fifty a night. Credit-cha back if you leave before three days."

Sam smiled with brittle relief and handed her the cash. Grabbed Dean by the elbow and dragged him out of the office and to the car. " Dude. What was that?"

"Were you about to hand her a fake card, Sam? That's . . . that's fraud!"

"I know. You applied for the card yourself."

Dean hung his head. "And I have a lot to make up for. If I called Hendrickson and confessed, do you think he'd help me make reparations?"

"Rep . . ." Sam stammered, shook his head. "Since when do you even know what that word MEANS?"

"Hey, I read!"

"Yeah, that's why you buy Playboy. For the articles."

Dean shrugged. "And the advice column, but that's all in the past."

"J-j-just . . ." Sam felt his butt muscles clench with agitation and took a deep breath, carefully relaxed. "Dean. Just get in the car!"

"Well look who took HIS grumpy pill!"

"IN!"

The beds had hanging drapes. And there were mice. Giant, uniformed mice. In high heels. Everywhere. Sam shuddered and tossed his suitcase on the furthest bed.

"Wow." Dean's eyes were wide. "This looks like a six year girl's acid trip."

"Gotta agree with ya there."

"Hey. Sam." When a rolled up pair of socks hit Sam in the back of the head he turned around. Dean smiled at him. "Can I have some money?"

"Why?"

"Cause, like, since I was resurrected I haven't had a chance to earn any?"

Sam didn't know what was more disturbing. The idea that sarcasm wasn't demonically inspired or that Dean was talking about actually earning money. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "What do you need?"

Dean worked a finger through a hole in his jeans. It was a good hole, nice and wide and dangling threads. Dean had worked at it for months, picking and pulling until he said the threads were just right. Now he looked piteously up at Sam. "Clothes, Sam. I need clothes I'm not falling out of."

"Uh, you always said those were your favorite jeans?"

"They have holes. And they're tight. Everybody stares."

"And that's a problem . . . why? You worked for ages to get them into that shape."

Dean let his hands drop and gave him and exasperated look. "You're the one who always says we need to lay low and not be so noticeable. Now I want to get reasonable clothes and you're giving me a hard time? Sam. Make up your mind."

Something that had niggled him suddenly caught and stuck. "Why do you call me that?"

"Sam? It's your name." Dean looked baffled.

"But you always call me Sammy."

Dean shrugged. "But you don't like it."

"Yeah . . .that's . . . true." Maybe. Sam scratched at the back of his head, trying to figure it out. "But . . ."

"Look. Just say no or hand me the dough, Sam. It's not that hard." Dean waggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. "I'll give you an IOU if you want."

"No, no . . . Where are you going?"

"Back to town." Dean smiled wide. "Salvation Army, the poor man's friend."

So Sam was expecting new clothes when Dean came back. He was expecting new jeans, maybe new boots. If his brother was lucky, maybe a new concert shirt or two.

What he was not expecting was pink.

A pink polo shirt, to be exact. With the faint, awful shades of pastels showing through the cheap plastic bag in his hand.

Sam sat down, stunned, staring. "Dean?"

"Yeah! This place was great. You would not believe what they had in the bargain bin!" Dean was pawing through his bag, pulling out pastels that would have been at home in an Orlando country club and tossing them onto his bed. As the shock of the pink shirt dulled a bit, Sam noticed, God help him, chinos. And loafers. He nearly gagged.

"What are you WEARING?"

"I totally scored!"

"But . . . it's pink."

Pink is the new black, dude. Haven't you seen the men's mags? It's THE power color. I even found a few button downs and ties that match!"

"Ties?" Sam felt faint.

"I tried to find some for you, but they didn't come in sasquatch, man. Sorry."

"No. No . . . I . . . " Sam got up and staggered towards the door. "I think I need to check in with Bobby. Just . . . let him know where we are."

"Hey, and after that? I saw this great vegan restaurant. We can get tofu burgers for dinner."

Sam fled.

* * *

A/N - MWAHAHAHAHAHA!

And LOVING the comments, people. They're tasty and non-fattening!

Goo

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

No More Mr. Nice Guy 4 of 7

Usual credits, Kripke, McG, etc. etc. No harm, no foul. Well, not much foul at least. Do I put 'em back like I found 'em? Heh.

Warnings? It's a GOO fic! If you've read any of my stuff you know what to expect. If you haven't, well . . . I worked hard to get my vocabulary, including the nasty parts. Now I need to pick up Chinese curses . . . but I digress. If you don't like raucous then you've probably bailed out already. The rest of you already know what to expect.

This is a nice, short one. Digestible!

Sam's gotten what he asked for. When a hunter gets in it, who's he call? Uhh . . .Bobby Singer?

Damn straight!

* * *

Bobby Singer stepped out on his sagging front porch as Sam pulled up to the end of his long, weed-grown drive. He seemed casual enough but his hands were definitely not in his pockets and he pushed back the bill of his cap to get a better view.

"Y'know, for a long time I used to wonder if he ever took that cap off, Sam. When you were still really little, I thought he probably slept in the thing."

"Well, he's got his reasons."

"But he's got such nice eyes and such a regal pate!"

Sam cringed. He thought maybe he should have given Bobby more of a head's up as Dean stepped out of the Impala and opened his arms in delighted greeting. Maybe not. For once Sam didn't have to hide the evil grin as he watched the older hunter back up a step, retreating onto his porch with wide eyes and a suddenly tense set to his shoulders. Dean had a real spring in his step as he jogged towards the house. Sam wasn't expert at reading lips but he sure as hell knew what "oh fuck" and "Christo!" looked like. He collapsed over the wheel in giggles.

Dean had wrapped pink-clad arms around Bobby's shoulders in a big, happy hug. Bobby was patting his back half-heartedly and glaring at Sam in the car. Sam got out of the big muscle car and gave Bobby his best innocent puppy look and who-me? shrug. He got the bird in return. And had to slide down the driver's door to sit on the ground, whooping in nearly-hysterical laughter.

"Hey. Laughing boy." The mild sting of a bill cap smacking him made Sam finally look up. He tried to restrain himself. For a moment. Until he got a look at the expression on Bobby's face. "Bwahahahah!"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck you and the horse you rode in on."

"Bobby." Dean's gentle reprimand took the last of Sam's control and he sprawled onto the ground in helpless giggles. Dean sighed noisily. "And Sam. Bobby, that's my car you're telling my brother to have illicit sexual congress with. I'd appreciate it if you'd respect my car, even if you can't bring yourself to respect the sanctity of intimate contact between two individuals. Ideally individuals of the same species and of consenting age and capacity."

Bobby turned very slowly to look over his shoulder at Sam's older brother. The whites shone all the way around his irises and Sam kicked a heel hard against the dry, late-spring dirt. "Welcome to MY world!"

"Right. Right. Uh . . . Dean. Why don'tcha . . . take yer luggage in. I know those fancy chinos gotta be hung up or they wrinkle, right?"

"That's true! Thanks, Bobby!" Bobby gnawed on his scruffy mustach and watched until Dean finished pulling out their duffles and retreated. Sam heard his steps lightly running up the front steps and then the slam of the screen door.

"Dimchester!" Another swat of the hat. "What did your daddy tell you about deals with demons? Hell, what did I tell you about deals with demons?"

"Uh? Just say no?"

"And do you see what happens when you hang out with the wrong crowd? Did you SEE him? He's wearing PINK!"

"But Bobby . . ." Sam climbed to his feet and leaned against the car, scrubbing his face with relief that Dean was alive. And, yeah, maybe that he didn't have to deal with Dean all by himself anymore. "Bobby. He was dead and damned. He's free and clear now and so am I."

"How?" Bobby grabbed his elbow and pulled him towards the house. "Tell me exactly what you did."

"You got it."

Dean had settled in front of the television. That might have been normal. But the glass of milk and the choice of educational programming . . .not so much.

"He said Mythbusters was too violent?" Sam kept his voice low.

"That's nothing. CNN and Meerkat Manor were too violent AND had too much sex. I just don't see it myself. Oh, the weasels sure, but Christiane Amanpour?" Bobby was gnawing on his mustach again. Sam had never seen him do that until now. But he supposed Dean in pink, watching Nova, could do all kinds of strange things to a person.

"So. Do you think you can fix him?"

Bobby glanced at him. "You might want to rephrase that."

"Oh, no." Sam picked at the label on his bottle of beer. Dean had given him a reproving look for it, but if ever Sam needed a beer it was now. "No, I'm not worried about him tomcatting around at this point."

"I guess I see your point." Bobby sighed. "So you didn't offer anything of yourself in trade?"

"Nope." Sam hesitated. Cleared his throat. "Uh. Remember I told you that Ava could control demons? That she'd learned?"

"Yeah." The word was grunted and there was an unspoken "So what?" Hanging in the air between them.

"Well. A quick glance guaranteed that Dean was still engrossed in public television. "She was right about something. You practice and you can do a lot."

"More visions?" Bobby sounded confused, not connecting the dots. Sam suspected he didn't want to connect the dots.

"Not since Dean killed that yellow eyed son of a bitch." He shook his head. "But I really only had visions about people he'd touched, so if he's dead . . . but Ava said that we do more. She started with just the visions too."

Bobby growled deep in his chest. "She also said you had to accept the demon's control!"

"Nooo . . .maybe not totally. She said she HAD accepted it, but that practice gave her her skills."

A narrow, blue stare scanned him. "And?"

Sam took a deep breath. "And before the year was up . . .well. I started practicing. A lot."

"Annnd?" Now it was Bobby drawing out his word.

"And I wasn't sure until I summoned her, but it's true. I can control demons."

Bobby's bottle hit the table with a thump loud enough to draw Dean's attention. Both of them plastered smiles on their faces, waved and Bobby called, "Nothing going on!"

"These are not the droids you want," added Sam. Dean rolled his eyes but went back to his show. Sam turned back to Bobby. "I summoned her and ripped the demon half out of its host. She gave me back Dean in exchange for its life."

"Those things aren't alive to start with!"

"You know what I mean!"

Bobby slumped and took a long draw on his beer. "And you asked for . . . what? Exactly, Sam."

Sam shut his eyes, thought back, though he'd replayed the scene so many times in his mind that he knew he wouldn't recall anything new. Sighed. "I asked for Dean, alive and whole. And then I thought about what demons are like, even if you're just possessed. So I asked for him to be free of hell's touch."

"Shit." Bobby put his bottle against his forehead like he needed to soothe a headache. "Congratulations, Sam. You've got the first human since Eden who's completely free of sin."

"Oh." Sam peered out into the living room. Swallowed. "Hell."

"You only wish."

"Huh." Bobby had glanced up towards the living room. "I kinda thought that would have been ruled out by the sinless thing."

"What, sleeping on the couch?"

"Is that what you call what he's doin' ?"

Sam looked up, then covered his eyes fast, moaning, "Oh, God. I so did not need to see that."

"...though I'm not sure I ever saw humping the couch on a list a sins. Or maybe it's just sex without meaning . . . Damn. The opportunities for research are fucking amazing!"

"Ooooh, that's another five years of therapy."

Bobby snorted. "You still squeamish, boy?"

"About my brother and his . . .uh, amorous pursuits?"

"That's my couch you're talking about."

Sam smothered a grin. "Sorry to insult your couch's honor, man. But if that's not sex without meaning, what is?"

That got another snort out of Bobby, who shoved away the book he'd been reading and rubbed at tired, reddened eyes. "I gotta say, other than deflowering my couch, I think your brother might have the right idea. A crash and burn sounds awfully good to me."

"Yeahhh." Sam yawned widely, jaw cracking. Sagged back in his seat. "I dunno about you but I got nothing. I found plenty of people brought back from the dead," he briefly held up his hand like he was answering roll call in school, "Usually by demonic intervention but not always. But guys brought back after a demon takes 'em? Again, unless it was for a deal . . ."

"Only one real story in the myths for something like that. And I know you ain't him. You want another beer?" Sam nodded and pulled Bobby's notes towards him as Bobby dragged himself onto his feet and slouched over to his fridge. "But the back from the dead thing, that's the easy part. The sin thing . . ."

Bobby's voice had trailed off as he opened the door and reached in. "Sam?" he said in a strangled voice.

"What?" Sam looked up, startled by the tone. "Bobby?"

"Sam? What happened to my refrigerator?" He sounded like he was forcing the words out.

"Oh. Yeah. Remember? I was heating up dinner and you were pulling out -" Sam thumped a knuckle against a stack of books. "Dean thought he'd help out and clean your fridge. He got all that fuzzy leftover stuff you had in there. Y'know, some of that looked like it'd been in there for years."

Bobby straightened up and shut the door with immense care, slumping forward to rest his forehead on the white enameled metal. "It had."

"Huh?" Sam shook his head, wondering if he was more tired than he'd thought.

Bobby sniffed loudly. "I'd been growing that mold for years. Decades, some of 'em. I used 'em in . . . " He waved a hand towards the back of the house were bottles and powders lined the walls of a small, dark, evil smelling room. "Years! I had one yogurt of virgin's milk . . "

"Oh." Sam felt his eyes go wide. Glanced in at Dean, who'd stopped doing obscene things to the couch in his sleep, and back to Bobby, who was leaning against his fridge with a posture of abject misery. "Oh. Uh. Whoops."

"That's it." Bobby Singer straightened and pulled his shoulders back, and sucked gut. "That. Is. It. Tomorrow, Sam, we start planning how to raise a little bit of hell just for your brother. God help us all."

* * *

Yummy yummy totally enjoying the reviews! I'll try to reply to 'em all sooner or later. Thank you!

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

No More Mr. Nice Guy 5 of 7

Perpetrated by livengoo

Featuring those nifty characters created, actualized and legally owned by Kripke, McG and all those guys. The OC known as Bobby's Furniture is property of Goo though it occasionally tries to escape. I'll put 'em back when I'm done playing, no harm intended.

Warnings: Uh . . if you haven't figured that out by now then I'm not sure what to tell ya.

Spoilers: All the stuff in Bobby's fridge. Oh, wait, that's right. Dean CLEANED that!

Thanks, as ever, to the Bayou Babe and the several folks who egged me on.

And a note to you readers out there: You're still HERE? My god you've got intestinal fortitude.

The highlights? Demon. Wishes answered and regretted. Motel. Wardrobe. Bobby! Couch.

* * *

Dean was doing the breakfast dishes. And humming. Humming Metallica should have been normal, except he was doing the elevator music version that had terrorized Sam for hundreds of miles.

It had Bobby watching him warily and Sam couldn't blame him. His eyes cut to meet Sam's and he whispered, "How many of those damn shirts does he have?"

Ahhh, so it hadn't been the humming.

"I can hear you, you know." Dean glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes at them. Then grinned widely as he went on, "And for your information, I hit a real streak of luck and found about six of these. All kinds of colors, so I totally scored."

Bobby looked nonplussed. "That's . . . great, Dean. Great."

"Mm hmm." Sam smirked, leaning back in his chair. "And you should check out the keen tapes he found too, Bobby. It's remarkable what you can find in Missouri."

The older hunter gave him a totally evil look in return. "Yeah. I'll keep that in mind. If you're done playing 'yank the old guy's leg,' can we get down to business?"

Dean finished the cup he'd been washing, turned off the water and leaned his back against the counter, drying his hands. "So. Business?"

Sam sat up, suddenly a little wary. "Yeahhh, well. Uh. You already know you're . . . different. The way the demon brought you back, Dean, it's not like you were."

His older brother quirked a small, ironic smile. "News to me."

"Right." Sam grinned back. "Well. Question is whether she can undo it."

Bobby was tapping his pen on the table in a staccato rhythm. "If she did the job right and rebuilt you from scratch, we're shit out of luck. But that's the hard way to do it. Easy way is just strip out the parts of your identity that seem familiar and send Sam whatever's left. That's what he asked for so she's fulfilling her bargain by doing that."

Sam winced at the ruthlessly descriptive comment. Dean was watching them with apparent calm, but a tiny line was forming between his brows and he'd pulled his crossed arms in just a little more tightly against his body. Sam tilted his head. "Dean?"

A brittle, bright smile answered. "So you're figuring there's bits and pieces of me floating around hell like lint?"

"I figure more like an escrow account, maybe . . ." Bobby sounded thoughtful, distracted.

"Dean looked away, out the window to the overgrown yard full of junked cars and nodded. "So you'd want to . . .what? Shove that back into me?"

Something in his voice put a shiver up Sam's spine, the way wind whistling across the winter prairie did. He wasn't sure what he was asking when he said, "Dean?" again.

The green eyes came back to him now, and it was easy to see the hurt in them. "Am I that bad, Sam?"

"What? No, no, you're not bad Dean! It's just . . ." He trailed off, not sure what to say. Dean shifted and the sunny, cozy kitchen felt oddly chilly. "Dean, I want my brother back."

"I am your brother, Sammy." It was the first time Dean had called him Sammy since he'd been returned. His eyes had been locked with Sam's but now he looked down and frowned openly. "I'm me, Sam. I remember what I was like. I remember you and all the years. I like who I am. Is it really so bad to be around me now?"

Bobby's pen had stopped drumming. Sam was on his feet and across the room before he really knew he'd moved, standing in front of Dean, hands hovering over his brother's shoulders. Dean still didn't meet his eyes. "Dean. Dean, it's not like that."

He looked up a little but still wasn't meeting Sam's eyes, watching his chin instead. "It sure sounds like it's like that, Sam. It sounds like you think I'm some kind of . . . I don't know. Cheap copy or something. Dean made in Korea."

The mirthless smile just put more of a chill into Sam's gut. He gently put two fingers under Dean's chin and tipped his face until he could look into his brother's eyes again. "You're not a cheap copy, Dean. You're just not the brother I remember growing up. You're great, but it's like you have amnesia for a part of yourself and I miss you. All of you."

Dean snorted. "Like the part you used to roll your eyes at and complain about all the time?"

Sam smiled sadly. "Yeah. The part that'd tell me I was bitching and moaning. The part that'd put Nair in my shampoo."

There was a small wince. "I'm sorry about that."

Sam clucked. "If you ever bring this up in the future I will deny it ever happened, but I kind of miss that part of you, Dean. It's not the nice part of you, but it IS still part of you."

"Not anymore." His voice was soft. "It doesn't have to be. I like who I am, Sam. Can't you?"

God. That made his chest ache and he had to blink really fast to get his eyes clear again. "I can. I just don't want to."

Dean studied him for several long moments, then, face as expressionless as it had ever been. He finally nodded slowly. "Okay. So. What are you gonna do about it?"

Sam dropped his hand to the side of Dean's neck, gave him a quick shake, then backed away, got another cup of coffee to cover and returned to the table. Bobby was looking down at his hands, and the tips of his ears were suspiciously red. Sam kicked him under the table and he glared. Looked up at Dean again. "Easiest way to fix it, Dean, is same way Sam here brought ya back. Summon that bitch and make her deliver."

"What makes you think she'll show?"

"She's a demon. You do the ritual, they show."

A skeptical look answered that. "Yeahhhh, well. I think I'll wait for the movie on that one."

Sam snorted a laugh. "We don't know until we try, bro."

"Good enough. So. We're taking a ride tonight, huh?"

Sam looked over and Bobby, who raised a brow, then back to his brother again. "You don't have to come, Dean. We can handle this one."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to show off how good you are at delaying gratification, Sam? Cause that's really tacky. Of course I'm in on this gig. I'm still a hunter, even if you don't seem to know it."

Sam startled just a little bit and felt a slow smile grow as something hurt and lost inside him warmed just a little bit more. "You sure? Might get something nasty on that nice pastel shirt of yours."

"Twerp. That's what Shout's for, dude."

Bobby hooted and Sam slouched back in his chair. "I guess we'll have to get some, then. Yeah, Dean. We'll be leaving at dusk."

This time Dean's smile was a real one. "Cool!"

* * *

Spring came a lot later to North Dakota than to Mississippi. The fields were open and empty, and went on forever under a sky full of stars. It smelled like earth and new growth and old winter weeds and the wind was chill and fresh as Sam buried a little box in the old crossroads Bobby had brought them too. He looked up briefly, needing to see Dean. His brother stood next to Bobby, leather jacket jarring oddly with the pastel shirt and chinos that shone pale in the headlights of the Impala and Bobby's truck. Sam swallowed and rose, walked over to the other two. "So. We wait."

"Demons," sighed Dean. "Rude suckers never do keep their appointments on time."

Bobby snorted and spat into the dust. Sam grinned. "Hope she doesn't mind an audience."

"I dunno." Dean shrugged. "I mean, she LOOKED like the flashy type, but she does seem to like privacy when she shows up."

"Are you SURE you're not thinking lewd thoughts about that bitch?" Sam eyed him.

"Ew," Dean wrinkled his nose and curled his lip, shoving his hands in the pockets of his chinos. "I say again, EW! Man, even if I was INTO thinking lewd thoughts about women I don't know, the crossroads demon? EWWW!"

Sam chuckled. And Bobby smacked his arm. "Clown."

"Hey!"

"No," Bobby pointed to the road behind him. "Take a look, CLOWN!"

"Sam doesn't like clowns," noted Dean.

Sam looked over shoulder, then spun fast. "But . . ."

Dean wandered out to the center of the crossroads. The center, where a beautiful woman with smoldering eyes was NOT standing. But where a small, flat, gold foil box rested, with an envelop on top. He picked it up. "Smells like perfume. Miyake, I think. And . . ." Holding the envelope up, "Addressed to you, Sam."

"Let me see that." Bobby took the box. Looked puzzled. Sam turned away as he opened the envelope. Dean leaned in close, attention split between Sam and Bobby. "What's it say?"

Sam eyed it. Crumpled it. Was about to answer when Bobby spat something out. He'd opened the box and held something small between his fingers, a disgusted look on his face. "Bobby?"

"They're chocolates, Sam. Godivas. But I think they're all the ones nobody wants – you, know. The orange and cherry creams?'

Dean stuck out his tongue and made a face. Sam leaned over to check, took one and bit into it. "Hey! " Dean grabbed his wrist. "Stuff from demons?"

"It's okay." Bobby shrugged. "I sprinkled it with holy water. And I'm betting it's just what it looks like. A box of nasty chocolates."

"Yeah." Sam tossed the other half of his into the field. "I hate coconut."

"Huh." Bobby held up the box again, studied it. Shook his head. "Maybe . . .You try one, Dean."

"Whyyyy?"

"Are you doubting your fellow man?" Bobby had a devilish glint in his eye.

Dean smiled. "No. I'm doubting you. You both got candy you don't like. Why do you want me to try it?"

"Cause you hate the nut clusters that everyone else likes. Try it."

He sighed, took one. Bit in and made a face. Chewed unhappily and swallowed it, looking sadly at the half piece in his hand. "Peanut cluster."

"Yeah." Bobby picked it out of his hand and tossed it away. "They really are the chocolates nobody wants. So what's the note say?"

Sam clenched his fist around it. "Go to hell, Winchester. Love and kisses."

"Cute." Dean hunched into his jacket. "So. Guess that answers that one."

"Guess it's plan B." Bobby clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Which we'll figure out over a nice pizza, huh?"

"No." Sam felt the slow burn of anger in his belly spike. He was trembling just a little. "No. No, that bitch does NOT pull that on us! Screw that!"

"Sam!" Dean and Bobby spoke together, Dean's voice scolding and Bobby's cautioning.

Sam shook his head sharply. "No, Dean. She's yanked you and me both around, and I'm not letting her do that to us. Bobby, you've got summoning spells, right?"

"Sam!" This time Dean's voice held caution and Bobby's reproved.

""Bobby. Yes or no."

" . . .yes." It was grudging.

"Sam? What are you thinking?" Dean shuffled his feet, looking nervous.

"I'm thinking if the employee blows you off, you call the boss."

"Oh." Said Dean. "Shit." Said Bobby.

Sam gave a smile he knew held no warmth at all. "You said it, boys."

* * *

TBC

If you're still here you've got to be wondering how long I plan to string you along. Take heart! The end is in sight..

And, as always, feedback is gobbled up like chocolate chip cookies and often even answered.

Goo


	6. Chapter 6

No More Mr. Nice Guy 6 of 7

Still by

And I'll give 'em back soon. No harm, no foul.

Warnings? By this time we don't even worry about that . . .

You're in the home stretch! Almost done with this thing, you'll make it . . . not far to go now.

* * *

Bobby's mess had been shoved to the walls in heaps and the threadbare rug rolled back. White chalk marked the floor in circles and pentacles, and black candles burned with steady flames. The air held a tang of bitter herbs.

Dean was fidgeting uneasily at one side of the complex circle marked out on the floor. He cleared his throat. "For the record, I still think this idea SUCKS."

"Gotta say I agree with the boy," added Bobby, who stood at the other side, book in hand.

"If you're not going to back me up, Bobby, say so now and I'll take this show on the road." Sam stood at the peak of the pentacle's angles, still trembling just the slightest bit with rage. The ride back had been quiet, Dean studying him with a worried air. He'd known it. And frankly, he didn't care. Insult to injury was one thing too far.

Bobby had a worried air too, but the line of his chin was firm. As much as anyone could tell under the scruffy beard, at least. He shook his head. "Nah. If you're gonna go do a dumbass stunt it'll save me time and gas if I'm there to yank ya out right away."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Sam took a deep breath. Cleared his mind and calmed, framing the words he'd need in his mind. "Okay. You both ready?"

Dean held up a bottle of holy water and a Glock. Cocked a brow and nodded.

Bobby shifted his stance and settled the book against his belly. "Quit showin' off, Sam."

Sam nodded once, raised a hand and dropped it. As it fell to his side, he began.

The words rang out, rhythmic syllables that twisted and rang and hung in the air, his voice and Bobby's, entwined. The candles burned higher, spiking up almost a foot, bright and golden, then shifting to blue. Sam's vision tunneled, narrowed to the flames and the marks on the floor that seemed to hang in the deepening gloom of the room. The air grew thick, dark and the flames suddenly dipped, nearly died, then huddled on their wicks. The air was suddenly icy and dry, smelling of ancient death and dust. Something that wasn't a voice but still spoke words rang out. "You called me. I am here."

Sam stilled and heard Bobby's words end, voices falling away like shards of ice. The air hurt his lungs. "I called. You answered. We shall speak."

"Why do you call me, son of Man? What do you seek?" He could feel the words on his skin, an unwholesome touch.

"Your agent and I dealt."

There was a pause before it answered. Then, "I am aware."

"I asked for what was mine to be returned. But your agent did not fulfill the bargain."

There was a low, evil sound that might have been a laugh. "You asked. She gave."

"The contract was not clearly formed." That voice couldn't be . . .smug?

"That is the fault of the one who formed the contract, lawyer. She was in good faith." This time there was no mistaking the laugh.

"True enough. I seek a novation."

"You what!?" The dark mass that hovered in the air coagulated into a parody of a man's shape. Ugly, red embers burned where eyes might be, brightening as it spoke again. "You want to redo the contract?"

"I do!" Sam smiled and nodded happily, ignoring the derisive sound that Bobby made.. "That's right."

"You are bold, Winchester. Or maybe just stupid." This time the derisive sound came from Dean.

"Possibly," Sam nodded again. "The crossroads demon is your agent, is she not?"

"She is . . ." A gleam of smooth black against rough betrayed a nasty smile. "She accepted your conditions Winchester."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Did she tell you how the contract was formed?"

The eyes died into black and the smile went away. The voice might have been suspicious as it said, "What do you mean, Winchester?"

Sam smiled a little more widely. "Pride is a sin and weakness offends against pride."

The demon shifted, growing looser in the air, turbulent smoke.

Sam reached out. Touched it. "Did she tell you how it felt when I do this?"

And the demon screamed. Bobby and Dean both flinched, and a rustling noise told of small animals racing away. Sam TWISTED and it screamed again and then he let go. It made a noise he couldn't describe and hissed. "You formed your bargain. With it you must live!"

Sam snarled, lifted a hand . . .

And Dean said "Stop." The air fell still for a moment, Sam and Bobby and maybe the demon too, all turning with surprise. Sam frowned. "What?"

"Stop torturing it, Sam. That's . . it's not right. It's what they do. You're better than that."

"No I'm not!" Sam shifted. Lifted his hand again but Dean shook his head. "Sam. Let me try."

"Uh. . . "

"I want to see this," said Bobby.

The demon roiled in the air. It might have meant "Me too."

Dean straightened up. "You. Uh, Demon . . .Do you have a name?"

"Not that I'd give to you!"

"Oh. Right. Okay, I guess I'll call you . . yeah. Clarence. Cause you're big and . . .well. Yeah. Like Clarence Clemmons."

"Winchester?" It sounded bemused. And annoyed.

"Though he can stay on key a hell of a lot better than you."

It roiled again.

"See. Here's the thing I don't get. You're in hell, and I know hell's just . . not a vacation spot I'd book for a tour."

"Get to the point." The demon, Sam and Bobby all spoke at once.

"You're capable of reason. You're capable of choice. Were you born in hell?"

"I don't need to answer that."

"Well, whether you were born there or fell, you gotta figure it like this. If you act like a big wart then nobody's gonna want you around."

"Why would I care what you want, human?"

Dean sighed loudly. "Cause we're the ones with exorcisms and we're not afraid to use them?"

The demon roiled around and Sam got the impression it was looking at him. Not maliciously either. It roiled back as Dean continued.

"If you'd just think about it you'd realize you catch more flies with honey and if you guys cleaned up your act you could get out of hell and nobody'd care."

"Uhh . . ." Sam didn't think he'd ever heard a demon make a sound like that before.

"I mean, you're a reasoning being, obviously. Demons aren't stupid, they're just bad. But really, when you get down to it, you don't have BE bad all the time. You can choose. Bad's not really about how you feel, it's about what you do and if you were just a little nicer, you could hang out and nobody'd be racking their balls to exorcise you if you get what I mean."

"Isn't balls a profanity?" asked Sam.

"Just a vulgarity," answered the demon.

"It's allowed," said Dean.

"Will you get ON with it?" said Bobby.

"Why? There's no rush." Dean settled back more comfortably. "I mean, we're just having a nice, civil talk here. No one needs to be rude."

"I do!" said the demon.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Sam had never seen a demon baffled before. This one hung before Dean and kind of . . shifted from black to a burnt sulfur yellow, then back. "What do you WANT?"

"I want to know why you can't be nicer." Dean tilted his head and smiled.

The demon suddenly spun back to Sam. "Send me back to hell."

Sam held his hands out to his sides. "Don't look at me. My brother says he's having a nice talk, I'll let him talk."

It turned to Bobby. "Hunter. You toy with my kind!"

"Not me. I'm just riding shotgun here. The kid and his brother are running this show."

It spun back to Dean, who continued in a reasonable tone. "And if you're a fallen angel or something crazy like that, come on! Pride is one thing but what are you rebelling against, anyway? I mean, I get that it's hard to rebel and show independence when everyone's busy affirming you but is it really worth it? If you'd just mind your manners and show some courtesy you could get out of hell no problem! In fact, it probably wouldn't even be all that bad in hell if you'd make up your minds to be a little nicer for a change."

"Winchester, will you SHUT UP?" It was starting to bounce in the air with agitation.

"See? That's just what I mean. Where's the magic word, there?"

"SHUT UP PLEASE!"

"All right." Sam growled and lifted a hand. "Now you're being rude to my brother."

The demon whimpered and spun like charcoal in a blender. "JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT AND SEND ME BACK TO HELL HUMANS!"

Sam paused, glanced at Dean, who still wore that infuriatingly reasonable look on his face, and to Bobby who looked like he was trying desperately not to laugh. He looked back at the demon. "I don't think so."

It discorporated into a puff of thin black miasma and then coalesced again. "You MUST!"

"No, no," Sam shook his head. "I have more candles."

"We can make s'mores," added Dean and this time Sam caught the closest thing to a teasing expression he'd seen on his resurrected brother's face. "It'll be fun!"

The demon made a shrill, terrible noise and settled in a puddle on the floor. Sam tilted his head consideringly. "I tell you what. Put Dean back the way he was before he was taken by your agent, you know what I mean?"

"The contract's spirit?" the demon moaned.

"Exactly!" Sam nodded. Fulfill the spirit as well as the letter, and I'll send you back to hell."

The demon drew itself back up and a faint, imperious hint of its pride rang in its tones. "And if I decline?"

Sam looked at Dean. Shrugged. "I'll keep you here and send my brother to hell. Just the way he is."

"You wouldn't!" The black thing hissed. "You would not send your brother to hell, Winchester!"

"Dean?" Sam leaned to the side and raised his eyebrows. "What about it, you wanna go to hell?"

Dean smiled widely. Waggled his bottle of holy water. "It'd be more fun than Bobby's fridge!"

There was a long, silent moment as everything froze. The candle flames did not flicker.The air did not move. All was still. And then a thunderclap rang and the demon howled, "DONE! DONE! SEND ME HOME!"

Sam staggered back, shocked and even his bones rang with the sound. Bobby chanted aloud and suddenly there was a noise like burned roses and a smell like breaking crystal and the light faded from the room as the candles died away into dark.

And, as Sam Winchester stood shivering, even though the room abruptly felt warm again, a puzzled, gruff voice spoke in tones he'd known all his life. "What the fucking hell is this?"

Sam smiled. And laughed. And heard Bobby's laugh join his own as Dean spat out curses and the light faded back in and his brother stood there, revolted, tugging the pastel shirt from his skin like it might infect him. He looked up. Curled a lip. "Sam. There better be a fucking awesome reason for this shit. Or else."

Sam wiped tears from his eyes. "I dunno, Dean. Maybe if you ask me real nice?"

Dean blinked and looked baffled. "Sammy. Either I'm not right in the head, or you aren't."

"Or both," Bobby added. "And that's just the way I like it boys. So shut the fuck up cause I think we all need a drink."

"HELL YES!" They both said at once.

And meant it. Hell yes, they did.

* * *

You made it, pretty much Give yourselves a hand. Due acknowledgements . . .

Kripke and his team rule for giving us Supernatural and I promise I put 'em back where I found 'em.

You can all blame my beauteous bayou beta for this idea. I'd give you her name but I think she's looking into witness protection after this.

The title comes from Pat Boone's terrifying and hilarious 1997 cover of heavy metal standards, "No More Mr. Nice Guy."

True biz.

Thanks for sticking with it, folks!

Goo

Or if you're REALLY reckless, go to the epilogue my betas twisted my arm to get. I'll post it . . .oh. Tomorrow or so.


	7. Chapter 7

No More Mr. Nice Guy, the OVERKILL EPILOGUE!

That's right. Epilogue. Blame my betas. I'm a happily heartless type and I would have left y'all at the end of the last chapter, but they wanted closure and they whiiiined. I caved. Here it is. Don't blame me.

* * *

Sam Winchester didn't wake up slowly. It was instantaneous. One moment he was wrapped in sleep, warm if not precisely comfortable. The next moment, he was lying in the dark on a couch under a ratty afghan that smelled not-so-faintly of dog fur. Dim light from over the stove in the kitchen kept it from being pitch dark, but it was close. 

Sam's heart pounded, ears ringing and gut clenched with fear. He could smell the fear in his own sweat, feel it in the chill of his fingertips as he sat up, trying to take deep breaths to keep from passing out and falling into that black pit in his gut. He looked around anxiously but he was alone in the room. No dogs. No Bobby. He swallowed hard against a lump that felt like broken glass in his throat and made himself stand up; made himself face the terrible fear that he'd been dreaming and Dean was still gone, still dead. Still damned. Or wearing pastel. He smiled at the image, but it seemed so impossible . . .

His steps dragged as he headed towards the stairs. He paused at the foot, not sure he really wanted to go up there and learn one way or the other.

Winchesters weren't chickenshits. He'd heard it all his life and he forced himself to believe it now, as he lifted a foot and slowly took one step up. He placed his feet carefully, against the wall where the steps might not creak so badly. They still squeaked, protested his weight, but more softly. Another step. And another. By the fifth step he was almost moving smoothly, as if he didn't have to force his knee to lift by an act of will each and every time.

The upstairs hall was dim too. A narrow sliver of light fell from the bathroom onto the threadbare carpet. Sam ghosted down the hall, staying close to the wall until he reached the spare bedroom. He paused, took a deep breath, and peered around the jamb. Blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the darker bedroom and made out a dark head against the white pillow case. Sam sucked in a deep breath, startled to find his lungs aching, and that he had been holding his breath before. The figure in the bed twitched, rolled over. There was a faint gleam of eyes in the shadowed face. "Sam?"

Dean's voice was sleep-soft, confused. Sam blinked hard. Dean was there but he wasn't sure yet if his BROTHER was there, or . . .somebody who wore pastel and paid cash. "Hi. Couldn't sleep."

"Didn't look like you couldn't sleep to me. You had dogs on you and didn't wake up."

"Yeah. Well. I'm awake now."

There was a snort. Sam twitched. Dean groaned. "So you come wake ME up to keep you company?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

A rude noise answered him. Still not a curse. There was a pause and then, "Hold on. Wait just a fuckin' minute." Sam felt something uncoil in his belly. Dean didn't notice. "Goddamnit SAMMY! You thought . . . Ooooh I am gonna make you EAT those ugly shirts tomorrow. One at a time. With ketchup and mustard."

"ME!? I'm not the one who bought them!"

"It's your fault I was ever seen wearing those fugly things to start with, little brother. You so owe me!"

"Says you! From where I stand –"

"GODDAMN HUG OR KISS OR FOOL AROUND OR WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANNA DO BUT SHUP UP WHILE YOU DO IT! I'M GONNA CHOP YA BOTH INTO DOG FOOD IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP AND GO TO BED! CRAP!" A grubby boot flew out the door of Bobby's room and hit the wall over Sam's head. He could hear Bobby's crabby grumbling, " . . .man can't get any sleep goddamn Winchester brats probably still possessed christo blasted . . ."

Sam turned and could see enough now to spot the whites of Dean's eyes and the way he was biting down on his bottom lip, trying not to laugh. Sam shot him the single finger salute and got a pillow thrown in return and right behind it, the solid bulk of a big brother demonstrating that he'd regained advanced mastery of the atomic wedgie.

It took Bobby marching out and demonstrating that HE had a solid mastery of a few moves too. Sam's crotch and his wrist hurt like hell by the time he was lying in a cozy bed, but he had a big smile on his face just the same. Dean was being a real shit, and Sam was perfectly delighted to know what the hell had gotten into Dean, and that yeah, it was really there to stay.

* * *

That's it! Glad you enjoyed it. Presuming if you stuck it out THIS far you had to. Or else you're a major masochist but that's none of my business. GRIN. 

Take care! Feed the fanfic writers you like. We live for feedback!


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